


Hit and Run - Part Four

by withoutaplease



Series: Hit and Run [4]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Language, Marijuana Use, Smoking, Smut, like seriously so much fluff this time, mentions of abuse (Billy), smut including oral sex (receiving), these characters are not eighteen yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 19:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: Summary: Billy shoots his shot, and Reader hears something she can't unhear.Note: This is a timestamp series based on my drabble, Cherry Lane.





	Hit and Run - Part Four

_March 24, 1985_

It took you the better part of the afternoon, but when you finally got outside and saw daylight, you had to admit that your mother was right. Before she left for her shift, she called up to warn you not to waste the day in bed, because it was a beautiful one. And it was; the sunshine and warm wind were a wonderful change from the usual cold rain of early spring. You left your jacket unzipped, lit up a smoke, and peered down the street toward Billy’s house. His car was parked outside. You dodged a couple of kids on bicycles screaming down the sidewalk, and headed off in his direction to see if he felt like coming over.

As you approached the house, you heard the discordant twang of a guitar being tuned coming from the back yard. Before you rounded the back of the house, you heard a few chords that became a few bars of a song you thought you recognized. You paused, listening, and in a scratchy, but on-key voice, Billy started to sing.

_“So, so you think you can tell_  
_Heaven from Hell_  
_Blue skies from pain_  
_Can you tell a green -_ fuck.”

He hit a sour note, and started tuning again. You came around the house to see him sitting on the back steps with a beat-up old acoustic. “Hey,” you said, announcing yourself.

He looked up. “Hey. I hope you didn’t hear that.”

“You butchering Pink Floyd?” You came up to sit next to him, and he moved over to make room. “I’m afraid I did.”

“Well,” he said with a sigh, turning his attention back to the guitar strings, “at least you recognized it.”

“It sounded fine, actually. I didn’t know you played.”

"It’s been a while," he said, tightening a string. "My old guitar got busted.” He strummed another chord, seemed happy with what he heard. 

"Where'd this one come from?" you asked.

"Birthday present," he said, plucking out a few notes.

"It’s your birthday? You didn’t tell me.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not ‘til next week. You don’t have to do anything.”

“I have to do _something_,” you disagreed.

“Well,” he drawled, “if you insist, I would accept a blow job.”

You sighed heavily. “I guess, since it’s your birthday and all, it’s not entirely off the table.”

“Wherever,” he said. “I’m not picky.” You elbowed him, and he laughed. He went back to strumming.

“So who gave you the guitar?” you asked, between chords.

“My sister, believe it or not.”

“She seems like a sweet kid,” you remarked.

He snorted. "She has her moments. Said she rescued it from a dumpster though, so it’s probably got termites or something." He shook his head, and started to play again, and then to sing.

_“How I wish, How I wish you were here -”_

He grinned over at you, and raised his eyebrows. You chuckled self-consciously, but joined in anyway.

_“We're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl_  
_Year after year_  
_Running over the same old ground_  
_What have we found_  
_The same old fears_  
_Wish you were here”_

He smiled at you so damned softly when he silenced the last note with a hand over the strings that your heart went all fluttery, and you had to fight a sudden urge to kiss him. Not that you hadn’t kissed him a thousand times already, but it was never just because, and you didn’t mean to start now. Fortunately, you didn’t have to fight long before the moment was gone again. 

"You want to jump my bones right now, don’t you?" he asked, lips twisting into a smirk, and you rolled your eyes.

"Pardon me?"

He thumped the guitar. "Chicks dig musicians," he said. "Gets their panties off faster than liquor."

“Every time I think you might have hidden depths -” you started, and he chuckled.

“Nobody ever accused me of that before,” he said. 

Just then you heard a car pull up in the driveway, and a pair of doors open and close. Billy glanced back over his shoulder, set down the guitar, then reached into his jacket pocket and came up with a baggie of weed to show you. "You wanna go somewhere?" he asked, tucking it away again.

It really was too nice a day to waste in bed. “Sure,” you said, “let’s go,” and the two of you got up from the steps. He ditched the guitar inside the back porch, and then you hit the road.

*****

“I want your honest opinion,” Billy said, as the two of you laid back on the hood of the Camaro, gazing up at big puffy clouds and listening to the radio. 

He had stopped for a bag of takeout burgers before driving you up to the lake to go parking. This close to the thaw, the water was rough and frigid, but the early evening sun dappling the surface made for a great view, and you had the whole place to yourselves. After you finished eating, he rolled a joint, and you split it while you finished your milkshakes. He complained about the quality, but you were feeling absolutely fine. You braced yourself. 

“Do you think I would look good with a perm?” he asked, and whatever you might have expected, it wasn’t that. You burst into giggles. “What’s so funny?” he asked irritably.

“You’re not serious,” you said, gasping.

He came up on his elbows. “I am, actually. What’s wrong with getting a perm?”

You sat up, and fought back another giggle. “You are the most high-maintenance guy I’ve ever met. By like, a million miles.”

“Why?” he asked, looking wounded. “Because I look good?”

“No, because you try so hard. I don’t understand it.”

"I don't try hard,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

“I do not,” he argued.

“Who are you trying to kid?” you asked, laughing. He scowled, and you got your giggles under control. You aimed for a sincere expression. “You know what, Billy? Sure. Get a perm. I mean, it can only be an improvement, right?”

His face fell, and he stared coldly. "You did not just insult my hair," he warned.

You sucked air through your teeth. "I think I did," you said, with mock regret. You grinned and slid off the hood of the car, ready to run. He was after you in a heartbeat, and you bolted.

You made it maybe twenty yards before his arms circled around your waist and he lifted you, shrieking, off your feet. "You're going in," he announced, and carried you down toward the water in a vice grip.

"Wait, what if I can't swim?" you pleaded, kicking at the air, as he stepped onto the dock.

"Then, I guess I'll have to save you," he replied matter of factly, nearing the edge.

He lifted you higher, like he was about to dump you, and you screamed. Then he turned and set you down gently on the planks. You huffed, and straightened your jacket. 

"I knew you wouldn't," you grumbled.

"I almost did," he replied. "But then I’d have to listen to you bitch about it the whole ride home."

"Ever the fuckin’ gentleman," you scoffed, marching past him back toward the car. You took a lean against the front, and lit up a smoke. A moment later, Billy joined you, and you stood and smoked in silence as your heart slowed down from racing.

"I actually can swim,” you admitted, after a minute or two.

"Noted," he said. "I actually can save you. I'm certified."

"Or certifiable," you countered.

“You would know,” he said, and then caught himself and glanced over at you. “Didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, and you shook your head.

“It’s fine,” you said. “I walked right into it.”

He sighed, and shoved his hand in his pocket. “You want some more of this?” he asked, pulling out the baggie and a packet of papers. “I barely feel anything, the weed here’s as bad as the weather.”

“It’s not so bad,” you said, gazing out at the water, enjoying the last of the warmth before it faded with the sinking sun. “I’ll have a little more.”

He lit up the joint and took a long pull, then he moved to step between your feet, his hips pinning yours against the car. “Here,” he murmured, right up against your mouth, and then he licked his lips and let a puff of smoke drift from between them. You breathed in, and he chased the smoke with the tip of his tongue. “You’re right,” he whispered, "it’s not bad at all.”

You exhaled, and your knees would've knocked if his weren't between them. “Yeah,” you agreed, head swimming happily.

“You really think I try too hard?” he asked, and you laughed.

“Oh my god,” you said, shaking your head.

“Honest opinion,” he pressed.

You sighed. “Well, kinda, yeah,” you admitted. “You spend all this time and money on your hair and on your clothes, and you don’t need any of it. You could have literally any girl you wanted, like anytime.”

“That right?” he asked, a corner of his mouth twisting upward. "Any girl?"

“Yeah. I don’t know what you’re wasting your time with me for.”

He caught your gaze, and held it. “Yeah,” he said. “How about that?” He licked his lip, and kept right on gazing, and your breath caught in your throat, and you looked away first. He chuckled. “What about you?” he asked. “What are you doing wasting all your time with me?”

“Getting my Twinkie creamed,” you said, grinning, and he laughed.

“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?” he said, and took another drag. He offered you his exhale again, and let his lips trace over yours as you accepted it, and then somewhere along the line he was just kissing you, full stop. He flicked the joint away to lace his fingers through your hair, and you felt his cock stiffen in the front of his pants. You came up gasping in a puff of smoke, and he moved one hand to unbutton your jeans.

"Out here?" you objected.

"Why not?" he cooed. "I even bought you dinner first." He kissed you again, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, and moved his other hand to palm your breast over your shirt. "Nobody here but us," he said, and you nodded. It was a hollow protest anyway. It always was.

He took a step back and then knelt down in front of you, pulling down your zipper and nuzzling the skin beneath your navel. He loosened your jeans around your hips, and trailed his tongue across your pelvis, and you shuddered. Then he yanked them, jeans and panties, right down around your ankles, and the cooling air hit your skin. He grinned up at you, then buried his face in your mound, and parted your lips with a hot-wet drag of his tongue. 

“Billy,” you breathed, when the tip flicked your clit. He hummed in agreement, and flicked again, and in no time at all, he unraveled you. You came with a cry loud enough to startle the birds from a nearby tree, and he didn’t stop until you grabbed a fistful of curls and pulled. He came up, grinning, and wiped his chin on the back of his hand.

“God, you’re pretty when you do that,” he said, as you propped yourself up on your arms and tried to catch your breath.

“Shut up,” you said, feeling the tingle of a flush in your cheeks.

“It was a compliment!” he said, standing and brushing bits of grass off muddy knees. “You don’t like compliments?”

“It’s embarrassing,” you admitted. He quirked an amused eyebrow.

“Tell you what,” he said, unbuckling his belt. “Why don’t you turn over, and I won’t even look at you.”

You scoffed. “Well, now I don’t want to.”

“Yeah, you do,” he said, pulling his dick out and giving it a couple of pumps. You shot him a look, for the sake of your pride, and then turned over anyway. You heard a soft chuckle and the crinkle of a wrapper, and then he rubbed the head of his cock through your slick, and pressed himself inside. You moaned, and arched back against him. “It’s not working,” he said, grunting, as he fucked into you in a quick rhythm. “You’re pretty like this, too.” He pressed you down, your chest crushed against the hood, and whatever objection you might have had flew out of your mind, along with everything else except his cock and the spot it was slamming. This time, when you came, your knees buckled, and he held you up with firm hands on your hips until he groaned his own orgasm and toppled over onto you. 

“You call that a waste of time?” he whispered, into the shell of your ear. You shook your head. “Didn’t think so,” he said, and stood, leaving you to get yourself arranged again. He lit a pair of cigarettes, pulling one from his lips to hand over to you. “Let’s go in,” he said, opening up the driver’s side. “It’s getting cold.” You climbed in on the passenger side, and he sat and cranked the heat. In silence, you smoked and watched as the sun began to set.

“So, how are you doing?” he said, quietly, after the last of the sunbeams disappeared.

You sighed contentedly and leaned your head back on the seat. “High,” you said. “Sleepy. Good.”

“That’s good,” he said, half-smiling, “but I meant, like, how’s your head doing?”

You frowned. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“What?” he asked.

“Check up on me, be extra nice to me. I’m totally fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” you said. “Even if I wasn’t, it’s not like I’m gonna do anything.”

“Would you tell me?” he asked. “If you weren’t fine?”

“I don’t know,” you said truthfully. You turned toward him. “Why are you so concerned about it?”

He sighed, and turned to look at you. “Because I know I’m an asshole, but I really don’t want to be _that_ asshole.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Your ex-douchebag,” he said, with some distaste.

“That’s completely different,” you dismissed.

“Why is it different?” he persisted.

“Because,” you said. “We’re just friends. You don’t owe me anything. He was supposed to be the one person I could count on. He was my boyfriend.”

He glanced down at his lap. “And you don’t want a boyfriend,” he said.

“That’s right,” you agreed.

He hesitated, chewing on his lip. “Is that negotiable?” he asked, sweeping his gaze up to meet yours again. He was serious, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“I - don’t know,” you spit out, after long seconds.

“That sounds like a _no_,” he said, shifting forward in his seat again. “Just forget I asked.”

“It isn't a _no_,” you sputtered. 

“Does that mean it's a _yes_?”

“I don’t know!” you repeated, helplessly.

He huffed. “You never thought about it?” he asked. “Not even once?” You stammered, and he pressed on. “You don’t think we’re good together?” 

The problem was, you kinda did.

“I like . . . wasting time with you,” you said. “I just didn’t think about -”

“Would you?” he interrupted. “Think about it?” He leaned over then, and brushed a piece of hair out of your face, and kissed you, long and hard. When his lips pulled away, the air crackled.

_Fuck._

“I’ll think about it,” you agreed, breathless.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

He smiled, and sat back in his seat. “You do that,” he said, and shifted the car into _drive_.

_Fuck._

*****

_March 26, 1985__ _

__

__

It was all you could think about. You'd tossed and turned the two nights since the lake, and clockwatched your way through your classes. Billy, meanwhile, kept a respectful distance, leaving you with nothing else to do but think. And no matter how much you rolled it around in your mind - the wanting him and needing him and wanting not to need him - you couldn't come up with an answer you liked. They were all some version of cutting him loose now or losing him worse later, and neither of those was acceptable. 

You walked down the street on your way home from the library, pulling your jacket close against the returning chill, and looked longingly towards his house as you passed. All you wanted was to knock on his window and let him fuck you senseless again, make all the worrying and spinning stop, but you supposed it wouldn't help this time. _Fuck you for caring,_ you thought, and kept on walking, until a sound from the house stopped you in your tracks. 

There was a loud slam, like a door bouncing off drywall, and then shouting. Billy's dad. You listened, heart pounding, frozen like a deer, until Billy shouted back. Another slam, more yelling, and finally a crash like glass shattering, and then the house went silent again. You stood listening for a long moment, but there was nothing else to hear. You gently nudged one foot in front of the other, and over again, until you reached home, your thoughts spinning off in a whole new direction. 

You tossed and turned through that night, too. 


End file.
